


Bittersweet Solution (or, The Piechenbach Fall)

by winninghearts



Category: Pushing Daisies, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Other, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:51:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winninghearts/pseuds/winninghearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this prompt:</p><p>"Sherlock needs Molly's help, because he needs her to let his friend Ned into the morgue."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet Solution (or, The Piechenbach Fall)

“Molly has gone?”

“She left just after she let me in. Why-”

Sherlock rose up to sit on the metal table, body naked under the sheet that had just covered his naked body, then swung his legs over the side. He walked towards a cabinet across the room, letting the sheet fall to the floor, and the tall man who stood with him placed a hand over his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“She left clothes for me to change into.” He pulled on a pair of trousers, then bent back over to push around on the shelf. “My coat is not in here. Did she mention anything about my coat?”

“ _Sherlock._ Are you planning on just walking out of here? I thought I was coming here to ask you a few questions about everything that happened. Not that I am not grateful for everything you helped me with a few years ago, but we only have about twenty seconds left or someone will-”

“The entire wing of this hospital is empty, save for you, me and an wanted assassin tied up in the closet who is guilty of multiple counts of kidnapping, murder and conspiracy.” Halfway through the buttons of his shirt, Sherlock held out his arm, sleeve uncuffed. “If that will really weigh so much on your conscience according to the moral code of conduct you force upon ability, feel free to put me back on that table, but don't waste my time, Ned. You only have about ten seconds, anyhow.”

The second hand of the wall clock ticked away, both men standing in place for those few moments, until there was a small thud of something large falling over in the closet. Sherlock resumed his dressing.

“Now that that is taken care of, I actually need to be off. I have quite a few matters to attend to.” He found his coat behind a different door and, pleased, put it on, following it up with a scarf that he tied tight around his neck. “Do not mistake my brusqueness as a lack of appreciation, but I need to go quickly.” He paused, blue eyes serious as they fell on the other man. "And of course, it is of deepest importance that I am still seen as dead. I would say that you are rather practiced in keeping secrets."

Ned nodded. “Of course. But what about the-” He jabbed his thumb to the closet.

“Will be taken care of.” With a pull up of his coat collar and the swish of a few double doors, Sherlock Holmes was gone, leaving Ned awkwardly alone in the morgue.

“Oh. Okay.”

 

John could not stand to sit around 221b, every bit of the flat breathed Sherlock's name, but he also could not leave it without being hounded by the press. Instead, he chose sleep, passing through the two days following with the aid of some heavy medications. He awoke at around four in the afternoon, feeling disoriented and ravenously hungry, yet repelled at the idea of eating all the same.

Mrs. Hudson was in the sitting room, tidying up a few things. John wanted to tell her to stop, to leave everything exactly as it was, but she stopped when she saw anyhow. She looked empty, like she had been crying, too, but moreover, she looked worried. “Finally up then?” she asked, voice weak. “You had some visitors just now. Missed them by about half an hour.”

“More reporters?” John asked, picking up a newspaper but instantly throwing it down when he remembered what the headlines would scream.

“I don't think so,” Mrs. Hudson said. “They were very nice, didn't ask any questions at all. Just came to leave that, said it was for you.” She pointed to the kitchen, where a wooden box sat on the counter, before taking John's hand. “Let me know if you need anything, dear.” John her a distracted kiss on the cheek, eyes still on the box, and the landlady exited.

It was a medium-sized box, wide and square, and as John approached he could see there was a note slipped under the strings that kept the top in place. He pulled it out and read the looping script.

 _So sorry for your loss. We believe in Sherlock Holmes._

John put the note down on the counter top, taking a minute to catch the breath he had momentarily lost just from seeing the name written out. Then he slowly slid the wooden top off, and the scent of ripe berries and buttery crust filled his nostrils. A pie.

And even though he couldn't really fathom the idea of eating anything, John cut himself a slice.


End file.
